(A/N): I'm trying something a little new here - first-person point of view. I'd appreciate any concrit you might have, as I'm still trying to get a feel for it.

In Medias Res

x Kris x

So people always tell you that if you’re going to tell a story, you have to begin at the beginning. I mean, clearly it’s the only logical place to start, right? Personally, I just wonder who the hell all these people are and why they think I need their two cents on how to tell my story. So yeah. I won’t be doing that. Starting at the beginning, I mean. I’m sorry if that offends your sensibilities or something, but I’ve got my reasons.

For one thing, the beginning happened so long ago it’s not really relevant to what I want to tell you now, you know? You don’t need to know every intimate detail of my childhood to understand what happened, and God knows you’d probably be bored to death if I did try to go down that road. And well, to be honest, I don’t really remember our beginning. There’s the time before we were friends, and then there’s the time where we are – I can’t remember what happened in between anymore. Which may sound weird to you, but it’s not your story, is it?

I guess the only thing you need to know about the beginning is that I loved Mike from the moment I met him. And then I fell in love with him and things pretty much went to hell. All of which is a roundabout way of saying I guess that makes the part where you come into the story the middle. Right before everything went straight down the proverbial drain. Lucky you, huh? So yeah. Here we go.

I don’t remember the date, only that it was something like the second week of February and the first free weekend I’d had in over a month. And it was cold. Very cold. It had snowed the night before and they were calling for more overnight. I don’t like the cold. Or the snow. Or early morning, for that matter. So when my alarm went off at quarter to six, I only groaned at it and buried my head under the pillow. Which, of course, did nothing at all to stop the noise. I probably could’ve ignored it until the alarm shut itself off, but I was afraid that if it kept up for too long, it would wake up one of my parents. I might have mumbled a few unladylike phrases as I pushed myself up far enough to hit the snooze button. Knowing me, I probably did.

Anyway, I sat there for a minute, pulling the comforter up around my shoulders and trying to remember why in God’s name I’d left the alarm set on what was supposed to be a work-free weekend. Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t function very well right after I’ve woken up. I’d almost decided to say the hell with it and go back to sleep when I remembered the call – Mike’s voice on the other end of the line, me hearing everything he wasn’t saying and realizing he was hurting. A lot. I couldn’t ignore that. I just couldn’t. So I’d offered to drive up for the weekend. There weren’t many people I’d sacrifice a weekend for, but Mike was one of them.

The alarm went off again, seeing as how I’d only smacked the snooze button, and I took that as my cue to relinquish my death hold on my blankets. I hate that little shock you get on cold winter mornings after you push the blankets back and discover the room temperature feels like it’s about ten below zero. I swear there have been mornings I thought the difference would make my heart stop.

My heart didn’t stop, but I still curled my knees as close to my chest as I could after turning off the alarm. I just sat there like that for a couple seconds, still waiting for my brain to catch up to the fact that I was awake and needed to get moving. It didn’t, but I pulled myself out of bed anyway.

I took a quick shower and got dressed – jeans, t-shirt, a hoodie. Nothing fancy. Nothing that would make it seem like I was making any more of an effort than I normally did. Which, as my mother’s so fond of saying, isn’t much of an effort to begin with. I towel-dried my hair and ran my fingers through it to make it look semi-neat, grabbed my monstrosity of a purse, and headed for the car. I didn’t eat breakfast. I can’t eat right after I wake up. It always makes me feel vaguely sick. I did dig a Jolly Rancher out of my bag.

Hey, you start the morning your way; I’ll start it mine.

The car was freezing – no big surprise, considering it couldn’t have been more than ten degrees outside, but here was where the fun came in: my heater was on the fritz again. I’d been meaning to find the time to get it into a garage for the past two weeks. Since I averaged a drive time of maybe twenty minutes a day going back and forth between my house and the record store, it hadn’t seemed that pressing an issue. The drive up to Mike’s place was going to take at least three and a half hours. Suddenly it was a very big issue.

I won’t lie to you. It was really tempting to call the whole thing off right then. Really damn tempting. It would’ve been too easy to stagger back inside, call Mike, and tell him I couldn’t make it. He would’ve pretended it was no problem, and I would’ve let him convince me he meant it. Two things stopped me. One: it was Mike. And two: he was hurting. I have done far stupider things for far stupider reasons. So I got the car running, grit my teeth, and got moving.

I was okay until I got on the highway. I have this thing with driving on the highway. It was damn near a phobia for the first few months after I finally got around to getting my license. The minute the car swept up onto the onramp my fingers tightened around the wheel until the knuckles were almost white. It probably wasn’t the most auspicious (And isn’t that a nice, big, college-educated word? Glad to know my parents’ money went for something, anyway.) beginning, considering I had at least three and a half hours of highway driving to look forward to.

Now to be fair, Mike didn’t know how I felt about driving on the highway. Somehow, any time it’d been required, he’d wound up being the one doing the driving. And by somehow, I mean that I shamelessly manipulated him into it. I can use what little feminine wiles I possess when it’s required.

…If Mike were here now, this would be the part where he’d die laughing.

Anyway.

Highway or no, I lasted the better part of two hours before I cracked. I spent the majority of those two hours driving with both hands locked in a death grip around the wheel, eyes narrowed and studying all the other cars around me like I expected them to arbitrarily begin bouncing off one another like pin balls. Hey, it’s not as paranoid as it sounds. Over the years I’ve found that most other drivers are mindless morons.

No offense.

Finally, I chanced letting go of the wheel long enough to dig my cell phone out of my purse and called Mike. At that point I didn’t care if he thought I was some sort of mindless moron that couldn’t grasp the concept of a three-hour drive – I just wanted to hear his voice before I lost it and slammed my car into the nearest concrete barrier. Hey, I told you – highways make me a little wonky sometimes.

“Mnaph?”

That’s the closest I can get to what he sounded like when he finally picked up the phone that morning. Hearing that, I knew – I just knew the lazy bastard was still in bed. I braved taking my eyes off the road long enough to glance at the clock.

10:39.

I think I hated him a little bit right then.

“What?”

Mike is nothing if not polite. Especially first thing in the morning. Especially after being woken up first thing in the morning.

…And it’s just occurred to me I’ve been using the phrase “first thing in the morning” in conjunction with the time 10:39 in the a.m. I definitely hate that bugger now. Damn.

“Hi.” I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to grin, scowl, rib on him or flat out light into him. I settled for ridiculously perky. Ridiculously perky people always seem to grate on my nerves the most after I’ve just been woken from a deep sleep.

Yeah, you were dying to know that little tidbit. I know.

“It’s me,” I supplied. I wasn’t entirely sure he was awake enough to figure out who “me” was on his own, but I wasn’t in the mood to help him out any.

“What?”

Mike’s monosyllabic before noon. Or a cup of strong coffee. Whichever.

I did grin then; couldn’t help it. My earlier irritation was seeping away and all I could think of was that I didn’t have one good reason for calling him when I still had something like an hour and a half of driving time in front of me. And suddenly, it was the funniest damn thing since I don’t know when. I started to laugh – again, I couldn’t help it.

“What, Kris?”

Thaaat would be me, ladies and gents. Well, Kristin, but no one but my mother still calls me that. At least he had enough higher brain function to realize it was me. Small blessings and all that. Still, he did sound as if he was beginning to get annoyed. Or would’ve been, if he could’ve worked up the energy for it. And for a fleeting moment I really did feel bad for waking him before I had to.

Then I remembered I’d dragged my butt out of bed before six that morning, on my first weekend off in forever, and I didn’t feel so bad anymore. That’s a little thing called perspective. It’s a good thing to have.

“When should I call you?”

“What.”

There was finally a spark of something other than sleepiness in his voice. It was probably the beginnings of exasperation. “I just want to know when I should call you,” I repeated, still tripping over the occasional giggle. “I’d prefer you up and dressed when I get there, thanks.” I thought about pushing it a little farther – you know, reminding him that some of us had been up before the sun that morning, but decided to drop it. Mike isn’t nearly as easy-going after he’s just been woken up. Some days Grizzly bears look cuddly by comparison.

Silence on the line. I was beginning to think I’d really pissed him off (something as intense as it is rare) when there was this huge, put-upon sigh from his end of the line. You know the type. The kind that asks the world Why do I put up with this shit? But that line about being able to hear a person’s smile in their voice must be true, ‘cause I could tell he was grinning even if he didn’t want to. “Where are you?”

“No idea,” I answered promptly, casting around for some sort of road sign. “But the nearest rest stop is forty miles away,” I added as a green sign flashed by on my right. Maybe not the most helpful piece of information in the world, but hey, it was all I had.

I heard what might’ve been the sound of Mike rolling over before he groaned, and I realized he was trying to wake himself up enough to figure out my location on his own. If there had still been a tiny remnant of irritation clinging to the underside of my mind, it vanished. Between you and me, that’s one of the things I can’t stand about him. No matter how much I try, no matter how much he deserves it, I can’t stay mad at the guy. Not for long. Not for nearly as long as he deserves, sometimes. Things probably would’ve gone a lot differently if I could.

But hey, we’re not there yet.

Mike was doing something with his computer – I could hear the keyboard clicking away over the open line. That went on for another couple seconds before he spoke into the phone again, and I could almost hear his brain shutting down now that he’d answered my question. “You’re probably still on 78. Gimme a call when you get to Freeman Boulevard,” he mumbled, already sounding half-asleep. I hesitated, glancing at the directions I’d spread out on the passenger seat and trying to remember where the hell Freeman Boulevard came into the picture. “Kris?”

“Yeah, okay,” I mumbled, a little ungraciously maybe. “Bye.” He grunted at me and hung up. I dropped the phone back into the depths of my purse and grabbed at the directions. Plastering them across the steering wheel, I pulled into the far right-hand lane and took advantage of the slower traffic speed to snatch glances at the paper.

Freeman, Freeman…

I was still hell and gone from Freeman.

I sighed and slapped the papers back onto the passenger’s seat, then dug another Jolly Rancher out of my bag.

So nothing much else happened on the rest of that car trip, and you’re probably getting the tiniest bit bored. Sorry. I never claimed to live a glamorous life.

But anyway, I hit Freeman Boulevard (or rather, the sign telling me which exit to take for Freeman Boulevard) and you better believe my cell phone hit my hand at pretty much the same instant. Mike still sounded groggy and out of it, and I flipped the phone shut with a not-so-feminine curse at both him and the idiot who almost took my front bumper with him when he cut over onto the off-ramp at the last minute. Prick. Hey, what did I tell you earlier? Mindless. Morons.

Still, I managed to find the place okay. I’ll admit I was more than a little proud of myself for the fact that I hadn’t had to call Mike because I took a wrong turn or something. And while that may not sound like that big a deal to you, I’m almost as bad in places I’m not familiar with as I am on the highway. When you think about it, it’s a wonder I ever go anywhere.

I parked on the side of the road and took a second to envy the fact that Mike’s street was actually plowed. No one plows the little back-end street I live on, at least not so that it’s clear before I have to get up and go in the mornings. And half the time they lay down little stones and sand for traction and forego plowing altogether.

But that’s not really important, so just forget about that.

So there I was, not lost and proud of it, the car finally somewhat warm from over three hours of siphoning away my body heat, sitting on the side of Mike’s beautifully plowed street. But I couldn’t sit there all day, so I double-checked the address I’d scribbled at the top of my printed directions, squinted at the place attached to it – indistinguishable from all the others lining the street save for the numbers on the door – and dug out my cell phone. Mike’s barely comprehensible mumble confirmed my suspicions, but I just couldn’t work up any irritation. “Look, I’m right across the street, okay? At least put on some pants or something,” I sighed. Not waiting for an answer, I flipped the phone closed and leaned back against the headrest for a second, taking a deep breath. Then I grabbed my purse, shoved my way out of the car, and shuffled my way across the street and his lawn.

I hesitated at the door, wondering if I should knock or ring the bell. I’d known Mike roomed with two other guys, but I’d forgotten to ask if they were gonna be there or not. I’m not always so good with the details. After maybe half a minute of shifting from foot to foot, I settled for knocking.

I thought I heard what sounded like a shout somewhere back in the house, but I wasn’t sure. If it was in response to me, I mean. I know, I know – what else could it’ve been in response to, right? But I’d never been there before and I wanted to make a good impression. If I was hearing things or the shout was completely unrelated to my knocking, barging into the house didn’t seem like the greatest course of action open to me. So I decided discretion was the better part of valor or something like that, stuffed my hands up under my armpits, and tried to concentrate on thinking warm thoughts.

I don’t know why they tell you to do that. It never freaking works.

There was a series of heavy thuds on the other side of the door, getting progressively closer, and then Mike was standing there, dark hair tousled from the pillow and eyes squinted against the pale winter light. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he was dressed in pajama bottoms, at least.

“You could’ve just walked in,” he muttered by way of greeting, spinning around and stomping back up the stairs.

I told you he was polite.

I rolled my eyes at his back and stepped onto the small landing, pulling the door closed behind me. “It’s nice to see you, too,” I mumbled, trailing him up the stairs. I hesitated at the top of them, taking a moment to glance around at what I could see of his place. Like I said, I’d never been there before, and I was a little disappointed that it was so…ordinary. Beat-up couches that looked like they’d been purchased third or maybe fourth-hand, a coffee table consisting of stacked crates, cracked linoleum in the kitchen, and bare wooden stairs descending down to what I assumed was a basement.

Not exactly something you’d see on the cover of Architectural Digest. Or anywhere inside it, for that matter.

But hey, I was the loser still living at home, so I really couldn’t say anything.

Mike didn’t stop to ask me what I thought of the place, only told me to hurry up and disappeared into what turned out to be his bedroom. As soon as I stepped in after him, I could tell that that was where Mike did the bulk of his living. His roommates – I don’t know. Maybe they actually made some use of that little living room; were sociable around the dinky table in the kitchen. I never thought to ask. But Mike – I could just tell the bedroom was where Mike did the majority of his living.

…That sentence sounds really weird. Maybe it’s just me.

Anyway.

There was what I immediately dubbed The World’s Largest Pile of Clothing squeezed up against the closet door to the left of his bed, his collection of guitars squeezed down at the foot of it (which left no room for, say, actually walking), a large-screen T.V. in the far corner, and his precious computer set up next to what I was sure was his side of the bed. There were piles of unidentifiable stuff covering every available surface. I doubt even Mike could’ve told you what it all was.

And of course, there was that bed.

Now before you all go and assume your pervy little thoughts, understand right now that me and Mike weren’t like that. I might’ve been head over heels in love with the oblivious idiot at that point, but we were strictly. Platonic.

But if you’d seen that bed, you would’ve understood. That thing was huge. Like, it dominated the room. Which was actually kinda small, which in turn probably made the bed look bigger, but – you know what? You weren’t there. You didn’t see it, so you don’t know.

It looked like the kind of bed you might never want to get out of once you were in it.

…Stop thinking like that. Seriously.

Suddenly the fact that I’d been up since before dawn seemed incredibly debilitating. All I wanted to do was crawl up onto that behemoth of a mattress and take a nap.

Mike was completely oblivious to my ogling of his sleeping apparatus. He was busy rummaging through The World’s Largest Pile of Clothing, head down and hair falling over his eyes. I remember wondering how the hell he knew what was clean and what was dirty in there. Maybe he really didn’t care. I don’t know – he was just always a little bit of a priss about his appearance, so the whole clothing pile threw me.

But you don’t really care about that, do you? So we’ll move on.

He stepped back with an armful of clothing, muttered something about a shower, and left the room.

Which left me alone in his bedroom. With that bed. Do I have to tell you I wasted no time climbing up on that sucker? To this day, it was the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in. No lie. I swore to myself I was going to steal one of his pillows when I left.

Hey, you don’t even know, remember?

So there I was, curled up on the world’s most comfortable bed, drowning in my favorite frayed hoodie and warm with something other than my own body heat for the first time in over three hours. I felt I was quite justified in dozing a little. Or a lot.

The next thing I knew, Mike was standing over me and shaking my shoulder. I hadn’t heard him come back in the room. “C’mon Kris, don’t go back to sleep,” he grumbled, but I could hear that smile lurking in his voice again. I rolled onto my back and blinked up at him, trying for a frown and coming up with a grudging smile instead. He shook his head at me, this crooked little grin he gets when he’s trying to be exasperated with me and failing spreading across his face as he sighed. His hair was still damp from the shower and he hadn’t bothered to shave the stubble off his face, and suddenly it was all I could do not to pull him down on the bed with me and curl up against him.

Right then everything about him made me hurt in ways you can’t understand unless you’ve felt something like it for yourself. Like something somewhere deep down inside of you is breaking, fracturing over and over again and pretty soon you think you’ll die if it doesn’t stop. And you’ll die if it does.

Mike, being the dense moron he is, just punched me in the arm before grabbing both biceps and hauling me to a sitting position. “C’mon, get up,” he chuckled, that little grin still crooking his lips. “Let’s get something to eat.”

My chest hurt – oh it hurt, but I just grinned back at him and shoved him off me. “Where are we going?”

“Chinese.”

My chest squeezed again, hard, but I just waved him away so I could slide to the edge of the bed and reach my shoes. “Big spender,” I remarked, trying to keep my tone light. We have a long-standing history with Chinese food, Mike and me. Goes all the way back to high school, junior year, when I’d finally gotten around to getting my license and would drive him home every day. Any time school let out early, we’d hit the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet that sat about halfway between the school and his house and eat ourselves silly for ten bucks.

It was a thing. One of our things. A friend thing.

“Nothing but the best,” Mike said solemnly, managing to hold the serious expression for all of two seconds before breaking into another grin. “Let’s go.”

So I grabbed the jacket I’d thrown off not twenty minutes earlier and we traipsed our way back out to my car.

Did I mention the reason I subjected myself to three and a half hours on the highway was that Mike’s car had been totaled? I told you I’m not so good with the details. Well yeah, his car was still in the shop, where it was hoped they’d be able to hammer it back into its original shape and not bankrupt him.

Well, that was half the reason. Or maybe it would be more appropriate to call it the secondary reason, I don’t know.

Anyway, the bottom line was Mike’s car was out of commission. He’d done a pretty good number on it – somehow managing to avoid doing a pretty good number on himself, thank God – when he’d lost control making a late night run on icy roads. That’s what he said happened, anyway. I had a sneaking suspicion he’d been driving under the influence because of the other half of the reason I was up there. The main reason, if you will. The Big Problem.

But we’re not talking about that yet.

So, me and Mike and the car.

The first thing he tried to do was switch on the heat. He was promptly rewarded with a blast of cold air that effectively dispelled that whole heat-other-than-body-heat thing I’d managed to get going on in his house. And causing the windshield to begin fogging over. I might’ve let slip a few unladylike phrases as I smacked the heat back off. He just looked at me as if I’d suddenly sprouted another head. “Your heat doesn’t work?”

“Nope.” I didn’t bother to expand, just threw the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He must’ve gotten the hint, ‘cause he just settled back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. Unfortunately, the addition of another body was more than my poor car could handle – I couldn’t keep the windshield from repeatedly fogging over. Finally, I was forced to crack my window. And forced to force Mike into cracking his.

Maybe hypothermia builds character.

“You should’ve told me your heat didn’t work,” Mike said suddenly. So much for taking the hint.

“I didn’t think about it.” Which was partly the truth – I hadn’t thought about how three and a half hours without heat was something vastly different from a ten-minute commute to work.

Mike huffed and glanced over at me, expression sort of wavering between annoyed and amused. “God, Kris.” I thought he might say something else, but he just shook his head and said nothing at all.

Anyway, to speed this thing along a little, I’ll just say that lunch was…nice. Better than nice, being with him again and how easily we fell back into the same old rhythm, like we’d never been apart. The way he laughed when I got excited like the dork I am over the fact that they had Chinese donuts (which aren’t really donuts at all, so I don’t get the name). How he rolled his eyes when I grabbed more food than I could eat and he wound up finishing my plate for me. How we talked about everything and nothing and anything in between and what silences there were weren’t the least bit awkward.

Better than nice. Right in a way you can’t understand unless you have a friend like that (and I sincerely hope you do, because everyone should).

I’ll admit I was a little thrown when he paid for me. I’m not a hard-core, I-can-pay-my-own-way-you-sexist-pig type feminist or anything, but we usually split the bill. But he only grinned and shrugged, so I just grinned and shrugged back. Hey, never look free food in the mouth. …Well. You know what I mean.

And then in the after-glow of a great time, we crashed head-on into the second half of the reason I was up there. The main reason. The Big Problem.

“So did you wanna drop by the show?”

Ker-ash.